Daylight changed the world Emery had fallen asleep in. In fact, she was entirely disoriented upon waking. She lay on the moss, wrapped in Cullen's warm cloak like a fox in its cozy den. When she stirred a little, she realized her head rested on something soft and, lifting herself up a bit, saw it was a brown tartan, folded up neatly into a pillow. She blinked a few times, trying to recall where she was, and as she looked around, she saw the forest in all its morning brightness. It was far different from the black nightmare of the night before. The trees had color, browns and grays and greens. Everything sparkled with moisture, and strange glittering growths across almost every trunk caught the light of the sky above, which fell in fat shafts through the branches. Fungi laced the moss and stones of the forest floor; shelves and stairways of white and red mushrooms dripped with tiny white vines and pale lichens. The roots which had only hindered her the night before looked far friendlier now, breaking up through the rich earth and offering hiding places for a multitude of small creatures, while on the tree limbs overhead were draped shawls of thick gray-green foliage that in some places fell to the ground like curtains. It was no longer the deep sea but a mystical realm, where sparkles flashed in the rays of white light and the silence was laden with muted animal sounds.

A sensation that someone watched her prickled across the back of her neck and shoulders, and she turned to observe the clearing Cullen had led them to, the man himself sitting across the way, back against a huge stone, one of his legs straight out in front of him, the other bent at the knee with an arm resting atop it. And his green eyes--their color vibrant in this light--were squarely on her.

Suddenly incredibly self-conscious, Emery sat all the way up but kept the cloak around herself. She knew she must look a mess. Her throat was dry, but she didn't ache at all; her sleep on the forest floor might've been her most comfortable sleep yet.

"I have water," Cullen said, getting to his feet and crossing the clearing to crouch near her. He handed Emery a hide pouch, and she took it gratefully, painfully aware of how thirsty she was. "When you are able, we'll move on."

Emery passed the pouch back to him, and he secured it to his belt while she huddled into his cloak. "How long do you think it'll take us to get out?"

Cullen turned out his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. "I hope we are out before nightfall; much trouble may come of my absence."

Tired and awkward, Emery thought of what she wore and how much more sheer the attire would look in daylight. "Can you maybe . . . go somewhere for a minute?"

He gave her a somewhat puzzled look.

"Or at least turn around? I just need a few minutes of privacy."

Understanding, Cullen nodded, rose to his feet, stepped up and over some roots to the outside of the clearing, giving her a little space. As tall as he was, he towered over her like a giant, and she knew that as nice as his cloak was, it would be too long for her to wear if they wanted to move a little faster than they had the night before. Once she was sure he was turned away, Emery stood and removed the cloak, looked at her outfit and had an idea. The tartan was still on the ground in pillow form. Picking it up and shaking it out, Emery hung it like a sarong around her body, draping it underneath her left arm and then tying its ends at the top of her right shoulder. That, at least, would cover most of her and be light enough that it wouldn't hinder her movements.

"I'm fine, now," Emery called to him, letting her hair loose from the haphazard styling of the night before. She ran her fingers through her brown waves, shaking out any tangles or bits of plant life that had somehow ended up in it. Then she bent over, tossed all her hair up and over her head, twisted it into a tight ponytail, and, using one of Oonagh's ties, managed to knot it up into a bun. When she stood straight again, she saw Cullen watching her intently and was both annoyed and satisfied. "Can I use a little more water?" she asked, somewhat demurely.

He drew near and handed her the pouch again, not taking his eyes from hers.

"I know it's drinking water," she said, "but can I use some for my face?"

Cullen nodded and seemed to realize he should divert his attention, so he busied himself with shaking out and reapplying his cloak while Emery sat and poured a little water into her hands and brought them to her face. She did this a few times, being careful not to use more water than necessary, until Cullen confirmed that the charcoal was gone.

A little refreshed, Emery told him she was ready to start walking, so they set off through the vines and trees and shadow and light, a heavy quiet punctuated only with occasional birdsong hovering thick around them. For some time, they moved in their own silence, Emery following, though Cullen frequently turned to offer her help in overcoming some hindrance or to check on her wellbeing. She didn't want his help, though, and always refused it, even when she'd have done well to accept. And the longer they walked, the more testy she became, so Cullen stopped asking whether she was all right and instead just judged with his own eyes.

An hour or two must have passed, and to Emery, everything looked the same. The clearing they'd been in was gone, but otherwise, she began to feel as if she were in a play with shifting scenery that never actually changed scene. Trees and moss and mushrooms of all shapes and sizes and boggy bits of earth and pale flowers that should've been dead by that time of year and bits of light catching her eye every so often and stones that sometimes had strange carvings or resembled frozen gnomes and curtains upon curtains of shaggy foliage . . . it was all mysterious and eerily beautiful, but she just wanted to get out of it. The longer they walked, the more Emery's reservations were overcome by anxiety, and she couldn't help but ask what she thought: whether they were getting anywhere at all.

Cullen stopped walking, stood still and looked upward, into the trees. "I believe so."

"How can you tell?" Emery asked, waving her arms around at the forest. "Everything looks exactly the same!"

"I've been watching the position of the light to determine our direction. We are making progress, though it is slow." He turned to her, took note of her frustration. "We can rest."

"No. I don't want to. I just want to get out of here." She did want to sit down for a bit, but she didn't want to admit it.

Cullen studied her, his deep green eyes difficult to read. Why did he do that? He had the aggravating ability to make her question herself with that gaze. It wasn't quite staring--she didn't get creeper vibes from him; it was more just a sort of wondering look, as if he were trying to figure her out, as if he wanted to read her thoughts.

"Stop looking at me!" she barked rather unexpectedly, immediately regretting having allowed her peevishness to get to her.

But, rather than express any sort of embarrassment or irritation at having been called out, Cullen almost smiled at her--almost--before turning away and beginning to walk again. "The time may pass easier if we speak to one another."

Speak to him? She wanted to do more than speak to him. Well, not the him that was talking to her--the him from her visions. But--ugh! Why was her mind on that again? On his arms, his chest . . . she'd like to see it again, in real life. Maybe they could find one of those forest ponds or waterfalls and go for a swim . . . No, no, no! "Fine. We can talk." Yes, she needed to occupy her thoughts. "I can't really tell you anything about myself, though, can I? Because whatever I think I know is all fake." She said it not without some bitterness.

Cullen tested a patch of earth for its solidity, deciding it looked all right and stepping firmly onto it. "You have yet to recall anything?"

"No. I mean yes," she answered quickly. "So--so you tell me something about yourself, instead." He didn't immediately take her up on the request, and she couldn't see his face to try to read why, so she pressed out of frustration. "Just--how about your parents. I heard the king say he was your uncle."

"It's of little interest. My mother was Conchobar's sister. She died when I was an infant. I did not know my father, though he left me my sword."

He fell quiet again, perhaps preoccupied by the forest, by assuring himself they weren't stepping into anything dangerous. But Emery's impatience got the best of her, again. "You're the one who wanted to talk, right? So, talk!"

"What do you wish to know?"

Oh, she wished to know many things, none of them easy enough to ask. "Well, so then . . . did Conchobar raise you? Was he basically your father?"

"When I was very young, perhaps six winters."

"So, who took care of you after that? You couldn't have been on your own." Well, maybe he could have, she realized. If he'd been as strong a child as he apparently was a man, perhaps he'd taken care of himself.

"I served as a watchman, for a blacksmith. He was more a father to me than Conchobar. Culann, he was called. I'd killed his hound when it attacked me, and as Culann was distraught, I offered to serve as guard for him in place of the hound."

"Is it just a coincidence that his name sounds like yours?"

"No. Others named me. Cú Chulain—it means 'the hound of Culann.'"

Emery had thoughts about naming someone after a dog, but before she could speak them, something stringy descended from above and into her face. With a yelp and a bunch of flailing, she attempted to free herself, and within seconds, Cullen had pulled whatever it was away from her. Only after he'd done so did Emery open her eyes to realize what she'd walked into had just been a thin yellow vine come loose from a branch. Biting her lip, she said with a little shrug, "I really don't like spiders."

The girl caught what might've been amusement in Cullen's eyes, playing at the corners of his mouth, before he turned back to forging their path, and she was concomitantly embarrassed and pleased.

"Oh!" Emery remarked, beginning to follow him again. "I forgot to thank you for the pony." She slipped slightly on a slick stone but regained her footing before he could turn and see.

"Has Edan taught you well?"

"Yes . . ." She hesitated to tell him that she'd already known how to ride. Why exactly she hesitated, she wasn't sure.

Then he said something that surprised her: "It's how we first met one another, out riding."

Emery's breath caught, and she was glad he was in front and unable to see her reaction. She had known how to ride, then! Part of her desperately wanted to hear more, wanted him to tell her all about their first meeting, but she couldn't bring herself to ask for it. She had no idea what to say and yet wasn't sure she could bear it if he didn't go on.

"This time last year, or somewhat after Samhain," he continued, and Emery felt her heartbeat quicken. "I was traveling west and passed through the forests outside Luglochta Loga. They aren't old, like this forest, not as dangerous. I brought my horse to drink at the stream, and you were there, already, watering your own mare. I was beguiled; it's uncommon for a noblewoman to ride. You were—"

Emery's gaze had been on the ground, so when he stopped and turned to her she didn't realize it until she nearly ran into him. Startled, she looked up to meet his eyes, was close enough to see the copper flecks there and wondered if her own eyes were half as interesting to him.

"What?"

"I—" He appeared to want to say something but held back. Some emotion crossed his features—Sadness, maybe? Concern? Why was he so hard to read?—but it mellowed into his general stoicism. Emery feared she'd lost him. "The pony, then, have you named him?"

"Oh . . . no, not yet." She was somewhat confused at his shift in conversation and distracted by his nearness.

Cullen tilted his head. "Why?"

"Because of what happened last time I tried to name something."

"The dog?"

"Tara . . ." Saying the word immediately made her uneasy. How could she have been so bold? What thoughts might it bring to his mind? And yet—Cathbad had told her to talk to him about it, hadn't he? Could she, though? Maybe if she walked while she talked, maybe then she could do it. She couldn't ask him when they were looking at one another like they were now; everything about him was too much. So she stepped casually around him, pulling herself up and over a massive root, setting her feet down on the soft earth on the other side, beginning to say, "I'm supposed to ask you about--"

But he cut her off, cried her name quite sharply.

"What?" She spun and saw his body had tensed, his hands out as if to stop her, his expression distressed. Was some monster around her? She couldn't see one! She didn't seem to be in any danger at all! What was he so upset about?

"Stay where you are. Do not move," he commanded her. She'd never seen Cullen so worried; even when he'd faced her father, Forgall, he'd held his calm.

Emery still had no understanding of his alarm. She could only gaze at him in wonder.

"The ring," he said, not moving toward or away from her. "You've walked into the fae ring."

She looked down and around and did indeed find herself in the middle of a ring of ugly blackish mushrooms, growing at uneven intervals in a circular formation. But she didn't understand the meaning of it. Cullen was certainly concerned, though, and to see him so made her afraid; she'd thought he didn't fear anything.

He shook his head, just stared at the mushrooms in consternation. "Anything man or monster--give me anything man or monster, and I can slay it, but the aos sí . . ." He put a hand to his forehead and pressed there, thought about what to do.

"I don't understand," Emery said quietly, fearful that her voice might somehow make things worse. "Can't I just step out of it?" But even as she said the words, she realized something was happening around her. Strange bits of light, pale blue and lacy, were appearing all around her, attaching themselves to her hands and clothes. She had memories of the yew tree the night Death had attacked, and a small hope filled her--the light had been friendly, then! But when she tried to reach out of the ring of black fungi, her hands hit some invisible barrier.

Cullen attempted to cross over to her, but he, too, was hindered.

Emery's whole body felt strange, as if some hand had reached inside her stomach and was beginning to pull at her. The lights were everywhere, like little bugs, and they coated her to such a degree that she was soon almost entirely engulfed. She was sure she heard Cullen call her name, but he was distant, now--too far to reach her--and all at once, the hand inside yanked Emery from within, and she was pulled right down into the earth.